


Everyone Dies In The End (It's Like The Plot Of A Bad Movie)

by GreyBlueSkies21



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: And People Are Dying, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drabble Collection, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, People Are Leaving, Post-11x22, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 07:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13452999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyBlueSkies21/pseuds/GreyBlueSkies21
Summary: Derek died on a Friday.Meredith left on a Monday night.Ever the dramatic, she came back on a Thursday morning, a mere nine months later, with a fucking baby.Later, when she's feeling a little less pissed and a little more sober, Amelia will think that that this has to be some plot of a fucking movie, because there's no way her life is that messed up.Except, her brother is dead.So maybe it is.( In which Amelia, Meredith and Maggie deal with Derek's death, each in their own way. )





	1. Amelia

 

 

 

Black skies.

 

 

White lies.

 

 

Black to white and up to all the freaking way down.

 

 

Flames on ice.

 

 

Everything blends together nowadays

 

 

                                                                                           *

 

 

She pretends nothing has changed.

 

 

Pretends she isn't standing next to her brother's grave, running raw fingertips over numbing stone and pent up grief.

 

 

Pretends the wild, unyielding rage shouted into the air isn't intertwined with tears and AA chips.

 

 

Footprints melt through the seasons, and in the end, she thinks she's only here 'cause she's run out of options.

 

 

Run out of people who care.

 

 

After all, it's not like Derek's going anywhere, right?

 

 

                                                                                         *

 

 

One night, she screams at him.

 

 

_Your Derek Freaking Shepherd. You're not supposed to fucking die._

 

 

 

And then, even more pitifully-

 

 

_Why did you leave me?_

 

 

She then remembers that he can't respond.

 

 

Can't really fathom how they've gotten here.

 

                                                                                         *

 

She buys a pack of cigarettes from a corner store at the edge of town. Drives to his trailer and chain-smokes the pack, lighting each one with the muted embers of the last.

 

Chokes and vomits and sputters, bitter bile and acid overcoming her senses as her knees reach muddy ground.

 

Earthy mud and stale cigarette smoke reek in the air as the jarring in her ribs becomes more evident with each cough.

 

Eyes sting, lungs burn.

 

She, oddly enough, enjoys it.

 

Enjoys it because she's no longer numb.

 

(Until the numb comes back, and she's back, screaming into the air)

 

 

 

**_*_ **

__

Constants and vowels choke her tongue, a vice like grip that prevents her from lying through her teeth.

 

 

Pretending.

 

 

The anger suddenly becomes some twisted hybrid of frothing emotion, liquid and disjointed.

 

 

She tells Richard she's fine.

 

 

Screams into a closed fist when she catches sight of her prescription pad.

 

                                                                                       *

 

Sometimes, she'll call Meredith's old phone.

 

 

She had never bothered to change the contact after Zola had dropped into her science project, so whenever Meredith pissed her off, she'd call it.

 

 

Now she just screams into the phone, her voice thick and pitifully small. Raw and raging, emotions frayed, resolve ragged.

 

 

Buys a bag of oxy as tangible proof of how fucked up she actually is. Wild and wired, screaming.

 

 

She's gone crazy. Raving mad and more screwed over than before.

 

 

**_Hi, you've reached the phone of Meredith Grey. I'm either in a surgery or generally don't have time for you at the moment. If this is Alex, don't leave a freaking voicemail and a million texts, give me a damn minute to respond. Anyone else, you know what to do._ **

 

 

She screams at Meredith because it's easier to blame her.

 

Better her than the cravings or dead brothers and babies.

 

 

_Fuck you Meredith._

 

 

(She blames Meredith because she's 99% certain that she was the last person to call Derek. He picked up her call and got killed. She a hurricane and she got him killed. She tells herself that the fact is a lie, but she knows it isn't. Plus it's so much easier to blame Meredith. So she rambles away the guilt and blames Meredith no matter how wrong it is.)

 

                                                                                   *

 

No one talks about Derek whenever she's around.

 

 

And's it's really annoying.

 

 

No one talks about dead brothers.

 

 

Or dead babies.

 

 

It's like this unspoken rule thing, because no one really knows what to call anyone like you.

 

 

What do you call a sister who lost her brother?

 

 

A mother who has lost her child?

 

 

No one talks about the fucking elephant in the room but her mind fills in the gaps with echoes of guilt and pain.

 

 

She hears what no one dares to speak, but she's honestly past caring.

 

                                                                                       *

 

This whole thing pisses her off because it was never supposed to be about her, and yet here they are. Pitying those who should be pitied and what-not.

 

It really freaking annoys her.

                                                                                  

                                                                                       *

 

 

She wakes up with a fury, a scorching rage she's didn't even know was there.

 

 

A painful reminder.

 

 

Maggie talks to her, but her words are hollow and empty. Paper thin platitudes that have no meaning no real pain behind them. Maggie aches for the family she never knew. Amelia aches for the family she had.

 

 

So she ignores Maggie and buries herself in work.

 

 

Drives Edwards nuts with coffin jokes and wears her scrub cap like a second skin.

 

 

She ends up saving a young boy with a brain tumor the size of her fist.

 

 

Spends the entire ride home thinking about how Derek could have done it better.

 

 

Skips dinner and ignores the way she slipped into past tense.

 

 

She's no longer surprised any of this.

 

                                                                                      *

 

 

Her hands shake with panic and an unending yearn every time she passes Joe's. Derek's death changed this little sobriety game she had been playing. Stacked the deck into a monster she could no longer pretend she doesn't notice.

 

 

                                                                                      *

 

 

 

She tries not to shatter. Fall apart. Splinter and break.

 

 

She refuses to lose her grip on reality.

 

 

No matter how inevitable it is.

 

 

(Her life is a horrifying train wreck, so honestly, it's a matter of time before she kicks the bucket too)

 

 

                                                                                    *

 

A week later she screams at Richard.

 

 

Loses all the marbles she didn't know she had.

 

 

 

                                                                                    *

 

 

Meredith comes back on a Thursday morning.

 

 

Amelia knew she had been coming.

 

 

Spent the week helping Maggie clean up the house while Alex called every hour to let the know how they were doing.

 

 

The neurosurgeon would like to say that a baby surprised her, but it really didn't.

 

 

(Leave it to Derek to leave with a big fucking bang)

 

 

                                                                                  *

 

Meredith comes back on a Thursday morning.

 

 

She comes back to signature Seattle cold. And sleet, and black ice, grey slush.

 

 

Meredith comes back with a small bundle of blue eyes, and Amelia has to stop herself from throwing up.

 

 

She looks just like him.

 

 

And it's terrifying and comforting, and millions of other adjectives that her mind couldn't possibly think of because-

 

 

It's.

 

 

Derek.

 

 

_Derek._

 

 

                                                                                *

 

 

It's been nine freaking months and Amelia can breathe.

 

 

But only just.

 

 

(Because breathing doesn't actually mean living. Derek would know)

 

 


	2. Meredith

"You're going to need someone."

 

A smirk. Odd look like the words went unheard.

 

"I know you heard me. There's really no use in pretending, Mer. Tonight, you'll need someone."

 

A glare, across the dark shadows that haphazardly fill the living room.

 

A snapped, bitter reply, the swing of a bottle.

 

"And what makes you think that it's you?"

 

" Because I'm the only one who gets it."

 

                                                                                  *

 

One year.

 

Twelve months.

 

Three hundred and sixty five days.

 

Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours.

 

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.

 

Thirty-one million, five hundred and thirty-six thousand fucking seconds.

 

And three months since she's been back.

 

She hates it.

 

Hates him for dying.

 

Hates herself.

 

Hates the universe.

 

Hate and carnage is what brought all of them together.

 

It's fitting that hate and carnage would be the thing to drive them apart.

 

 

                                                                               *

 

 

She cradles the bottle in her palm, enjoying the cold of the glass against her clammy skin.

 

Flames on ice.

 

Black skies.

 

Clear liquor.

 

Flames.

 

Ice.

 

Post-It lies.

 

She can still feel the soft, nearly pitiful gaze that stares into her soul, stares at her with knowing eyes. Knowing pain.

 

It burns a flame, a fueled fire that makes her burst into unearthing rage.

 

Hot skin. Cold glass. Hot and cold. Cold and hot. Hot and cold.

 

"Leave me alone."

 

Cold glass.

 

Grey sleet.

 

Black skies.

 

Post-It Notes. (Lies)

 

"Just go the fuck away."

 

                                                                                  *

 

 

Silence. It's been this same silence for the past hour.  It's been silence, and screams and knowing looks.

 

The sound of silence screams in her head.

 

Screams and screams and screams.

 

And silence.

 

 

                                                                                *

 

 

It's three in the morning.

 

Somewhere in the house, she can hear Alex's soft snores.

 

Alex who had settled on alternating between his apartment and her house.

 

Alex who juggled angry girlfriends and three kids that weren't his own based on a promise to a ghost of the past.

 

Maggie typing on her computer.

 

Maggie who always made sure that she did everything she could to help ensure kids were ready and fed.

 

Maggie who always made sure that the liquor was a little farther than usual, just in case.

 

Amelia's slow sips of ginger-ale.

 

Amelia who had never directly spoken to her since she had came back.

 

Amelia who had helped out the most but never really looked her in the eye.

 

"You'll keep drinking for the next hour. See how many shots you can down until it hits four,"

 

A light voice, barely a whisper in the air.

 

"Then Ellis will wake up, Or you'll hear Zola stir. Or maybe, just maybe, your eye will catch on that stupid fucking blanket. The picture at the end of the hall. "

 

She stops, lets the words hang between them.

 

Meredith isn't really sure how to respond to the situation, doesn't know how to wrap her head around dead husbands and endless silence.

 

Isn't even sure she wants to respond.

 

 

                                                                                   *

 

 

"You'll break. You'll curse and drink and scream into oblivion. You'll ask the universe why you got dealt with this crappy, shitty hand, and when it doesn't respond, you'll drink and curse even more."

 

She clasps the warm bottle of tequila, liquor swirling as she circles the neck of the bottle.

 

Downs the rest of the damn thing in one gulp, burning her throat.

 

Eyes stinging, fire scorching her lungs.

 

She doesn't bring her self to care when her eyes water in response.

 

Just pulls out another bottle.

 

It ends up falling next to Amelia, who carefully rolls it in her hands.

 

Danger lurks in her eyes, yearning and pain and so much more.

 

Meredith knows she should stop her.

 

But she really doesn't fucking care anymore.

 

(Much to her surprise, Amelia doesn't drink. She cracks the cap and places the bottle back in her vicinity. Not giving it to her, but not taking it away. Looks like things have really did change when she left. It's refreshing.) 

 

 

                                                                                 *

 

 

"You think that if you ignore it, it'll go away. But you can't. Just let it the hell out."

 

 

                                                                                 *

 

There's a anger that consumer her at four.

 

They had moved to the backyard now, and Meredith had previously finished taking her anger out on a old chest Alex hadn't thrown out the day before.

 

"Why does this happen to us? Everyone dies around us! Like a fucking curse!"

 

A plea into the dark.

 

"Why won't it stop?"

 

She finds her way to the ground, soft dewy grass clasped between her fingers. Draws one leg up, slinks her hands around her kneecap.

 

Hangs on for dear life.

 

Awaits the silence she knows will be heavy and painful, hanging thick with grief, a black cloud on black skies.

 

 

                                                                                   *

 

 

And then Amelia laughs.

 

It's bitter and weary, mixed with colorful words.

 

Soft yet harsh, flames on ice, dead husbands and dead brothers reflected in the dark, pale moonlight.

 

"Bailey is going to be three. Derek should be here. He should be here, but he's not."

 

She slumps back against deck, eyes heavy and clouded with emotion.

 

"You're going to need someone whenever you think of dead husbands or dead sisters, or the fucked up cards we got handed with, and the only person you want is six feet under the ground. The person we both need is buried six feet in a damn coffin, and it fucking hurts."

 

"What's your point?"

 

 

                                                                                   *

 

Silence.

 

No response comes her way, so she pushes herself off the dewy ground.

 

Downs the remaining tequila and stalks back towards the house, stumbling every second step.

 

The first step of the deck creaks under her weight when a thin voice reaches her ears.

 

"You are going to need somebody who understands what the hell is going on, and I don't know where we'll be when that time comes, but- I will try to be there."

 

"Why?"

 

The question was supposed to be a dare, bitter and resounding.

 

But it somehow flattens as it leaves her vocal chords, and the general surgeon just sounds tired and broken.

 

A thousand years older than she actually is.

 

"Because of Derek."

 

Meredith whips around at the sound of his name, raw from the sound.

 

_Derek._

 

The screams and the silence and the memories all fade, and for just a moment, it's just them.

 

She didn't want Amelia as a sister. Amelia probably didn't want her.

 

But they have each other.

 

"Because of Derek."


	3. Maggie

 

Maggie would like to say she isn't enjoying this.

 

 

Having Meredith, Alex, Amelia and the kids all in one house.

 

 

She'd like to say that she doesn't feel at home.

 

 

But she does.

 

 

Which is completely mortifying considering that Derek is dead.

 

 

Dead.

 

 

A concept she can't seem to wrap her head around.

 

 

Foreign.

 

 

Doesn't make sense.

 

 

After all, she didn't know him for long.

 

 

She didn't know him like Meredith did. 

 

 

Or Amelia.

 

 

Or Arizona and Webber and Callie.

 

 

She didn't really know him. He was in DC for most of the time that she was there.

 

 

But she knew him long enough to see him handing beers to Alex after work.

 

 

Playing dress up with Zola and kissing Meredith.

 

 

Teasing Amelia and dodging the doll she'd throw in response.

 

 

Seeing his kind smile across linoleum floors.

 

 

Derek Shepherd, was, in her mind, invincible.

 

 

But now he's dead, and she doesn't get it.

 

 

For the first time in her life, Maggie Peirce doesn't understand something.

 

(And really doesn't want to)

 

 

                                                                              *

 

 

Nine months passed like a painstaking blur.

 

 

Meredith leaving hurt harder than she expected it to

 

 

Correction. It a lot harder than she had expected.

 

 

She makes friends with Alex, who immediately decides that she is now a part of they're ragtag family with a slap on the back and a warm beer.

 

 

Opens up to Arizona and Callie and Jackson and the rest of this group that welcomes her so whole-heartedly it's both comforting and lonesome.

 

 

Maggie spends her months fixing whatever problem lies in someone's chest cavity and trying to help Amelia.

 

Amelia ignores her.  

 

A fact that ends up hurting as much as Meredith's absence does.

 

 

 

                                                                                 *

 

 

 

When she feels lonely, she'll visit Derek.

 

 

She knows she has no place to. No reason why.

 

 

But after her grandmother died, her mother decided, rather pointedly, to visit the grave weekly. 

 

 

Replaced the flowers and talked to her, as if she was living.

 

 

Breathing.

 

 

It seemed to comfort her mother, and honestly, Maggie just doesn't see anything else to do.

 

 

She knows she has absolutely no right to be there, but she goes anyway.

 

 

Tries to get to know the man opened his family to her without ever even knowing her.

 

 

 

                                                                                    *

 

 

 

 

The on and off, talking-to-the-dead schedule was oddly comforting.

 

 

Maggie would go whenever she had a day off.

 

 

Feels the soft grass underneath her feet, the slight squish made when the sole of her shoe meets muddy ground.

 

 

She doesn't bring flowers.

 

 

She doesn't bring flowers because each time she arrives a new array of flowers replace the old.

 

 

Amelia's doing.

 

 

Maggie assumes that Amelia would probably not appreciate the gesture, so she doesn't bring any and hopes that Derek understands.

 

 

Today, it's oddly sunny, rare rays of yellow light warming her face as she sits at the base of the stern tree that's taken root across from him. 

 

 

"Hi Derek."

 

 

A greeting.

 

 

It's how she always starts.

 

 

 

 

                                                                                 *

 

 

  
She visits him on and off until Thanksgiving.

 

 

Gets tired of listening to Jo and Alex flirt of the half-burned turkey, and promptly suggests that she's going to go out for a bit.

 

 

Snow covers the toes of her boots, the street slippery from the grey sleet that covers it.

 

 

Grey sleet.

 

 

Grey gravestones.

 

 

Grey skies

 

 

Mute and mundane.

 

 

She's standing outside, leaning on the side of her car, covered up and warm.

 

 

 

She's standing there, breathing icy air into hot lungs, puffy wisps of white that are inhaled and exhaled back out again.

 

 

Flames and ice.

 

 

The grass crunches beneath her feet, the feeling crisp and the sound resounding.

 

 

Around thirty steps away from his grave, Maggie catches sight of a head speckled with snow. 

 

 

A blob of brunette hair slouched against the numbing stone, emanating pain.

 

Crying.

 

 

_Why did you leave me?_

 

 

Oh.

 

 

_Oh._

 

 

She turns and leaves the way she came, torn between staying to comfort the older woman and leaving.

 

 

Logic overrides the frothing guilt and concern that bubbles inside her when she decides that it's really not her place to invade.

 

 

She decides, almost uncertainly, that Amelia would appreciate the latter.

 

 

So she keeps walking.

 

 

Walking and walking and walking and walking.

 

 

Slips softly into the car.

 

 

Pausing, Maggie reaches a hand out.

 

 

Carefree and content, her hand shoots out to catch a flake of snow, a white feathery memory of days before.

 

 

It's soft, like ash.

 

 

And memories.

 

 

And soap.

 

 

She never visits Derek after that.

 

 

(And decides that he wouldn't mind anyway)

 

 

                                                                                *

 

 

 

 

She finds Amelia in the kitchen on her day off, a full three months after Meredith came back.

 

 

Exactly one week after his birthday.

 

 

To the day.

 

 

The older woman is muttering a colorful array of words while jamming an object that maybe looks like a whisk into another object that Maggie doesn't recognize.

 

 

Alex left to meet up with Jo.

 

 

Meredith had a surgery.

 

 

Kids are gone.

 

 

And Amelia is...baking?

 

 

Curiouser and curiouser.

 

 

  
                                                                              *

 

  
"What's going on?"

 

 

A question asked very, very carefully when a spoon flies across the room.

 

 

Clatters and falls at impact. 

 

 

"What the hell does it look like?"

 

 

A non-answer, a question for a question

 

 

Muttered with the barest acknowledgment to see who entered the room.

 

 

Amelia is radiating anger, furiously running a hand through her hair. 

 

 

Maggie can practically feel her spontaneously combusting.

 

 

_Oh dear._

 

 

Seconds pass and Amelia still hasn't acknowledged her.

 

 

Hasn't noticed that she didn't respond.

 

 

Just lets the question hang in the air, drifting above the tomatoes and spices that lie askew on the counter.

 

 

"Ummm....Well, it looks like your trying to cook...but umm...-"

 

 

The cardio surgeon decides, very carefully, to approach the older woman.

 

 

Nearly chickens out when Amelia grabs enough a knife and starts hacking at some meat on the cutting board. 

 

 

Maggie gulps.

 

 

Gathers her courage and continues walking. Stops to a halt when she reaches the woman's side.

 

 

And, after deciding that it's safe, begins to skim the recipe.

 

 

And is cut off by a burning smell.

 

 

Strong and pungent. 

 

 

Smoke.

 

 

Then the cap flies off the pot behind them.

 

 

Pot promptly bursts into flames.

 

 

Really, everything goes to hell after that.

 

 

 

                                                                                 *

 

 

 

"It's on fire!! Oh my God, there's a fire!"

 

 

"Thank you, Captain freakin' Obvious."

 

 

 

 

                                                                               *

 

 

 

Amelia screamed when her sleeve caught on fire.

 

 

 

Rapidly tried to put it out.

 

 

 

Maggie freaked after that point and started praying.

 

 

 

And somehow, _somehow_ , things got worse from there. 

 

 

 

                                                                              *

 

 

 

 

"Well, don't just stand there! Put it out, put it out!"

 

 

_"Do I look like a fucking firefighter?"_

 

 

 

 

                                                                                *

 

 

 

  
"Well that was...."

 

 

"Interesting?"

 

 

Amelia's voice reaches her ears, weary and thin.

 

 

A sharp contrast to the silence she'd been used to so far. 

 

 

Maggie is not sure how long she's been sitting there.

 

 

Back to the cool cabinet, hands on the hardware floor.

 

 

Cool air.

 

 

Silence.

 

 

It feels like hours.

 

 

Days.

 

 

Years.

 

 

It's probably just been a couple minutes, since they somehow put the fire out.

 

 

Turned off the smoke detector.

 

 

It's been a couple minutes since they slouched against the cabinets, crouching on the floor.

 

 

But it's been just long enough for her to lose all feeling in her left foot. 

 

 

It's odd. 

 

 

The sensation is as numb as it is painful, intricate nerves switching from numbness to prickling pain.

 

 

Hot and cold.

 

 

Silence and static.

 

 

She thinks that the two of them of them could sit there all day.

 

 

It's sort of peaceful.

 

 

They could just sit there and escape the carnage, even if for just a second.

 

 

And then she catches Amelia staring at the liquor cabinet and thinks that maybe, maybe there are better ways for the neurosurgeon to escape.

 

 

To forget.

 

 

"So how did you manage to burn pasta?"

 

 

 

                                                                                  *

 

  
"I forgot the cheese."

 

 

Amelia's voice cuts through the silence, strained and tired.

 

 

Spoken a full awkward minute after Maggie had asked how a world class surgeon managed to turn the kitchen into a set from Chicago Fire.

 

 

And she is still staring at the damn booze.

 

 

"I forgot the cheese and then the pot handle broke, and we ran out of fucking olive oil. And I called Meredith to get some on the way home but she was in the fucking OR, and wouldn't pick up, and I didn't want to call Alex. So I used vegetable oil, but I put way too much, and the pasta burned, which by the way, isn't fucking possible. But I somehow did it anyway and now there's hot oil all over my surgery notes, the house smells like a fucking arson scene and I am never, ever cooking anything but waffles again."

 

 

Maggie knows that Amelia rambles.

 

 

A lot.

 

 

But this is, quite possibly, the most words she's ever manages to string together in a single mouthful.

 

 

Maggie doesn't know if she's amazed or worried.

 

 

The creases on Amelia's forehead form a frown.

 

 

Maggie chooses the latter.

 

 

"So, you were cooking?"

 

 

The frown deepens.

 

 

And Maggie thinks, with a startling certainty, that she is somehow missing the point entirely. 

 

  
   
                                                                                    *

 

  
 

Ten seconds into the silence, she repeats herself.

 

 

It's less of a forced question this time, something that the young surgeon is proud of.

 

 

It's a statement.

 

 

Something entirely obvious by the state of the kitchen.

 

 

But Amelia is still eyeing the alcohol.

 

 

And Maggie is still trying to keep a conversation. 

 

 

 

                                                                                 *

 

 

 

She somehow convinces to Amelia to get up.

 

 

She doesn't even remember getting up herself. 

 

 

Just remembers dusting her jeans off and hold out her hand.

 

 

Maggie lets a second pass before she clears her throat, finally caching Amelia's attention.

 

 

Pulling it away from the tequila they both know is in the cabinet.

 

 

"C'mon. We are going to fix this mess."

 

 

Amelia snorts in response. 

 

 

Fifty percent bitter, fifty nonchalant. One hundred percent unreadable.

 

 

Maggie doesn't let it discourage her.

 

 

Just sighs and reaches a hand down a little more prominently.

 

 

Whether it's her desperate expression or persistence that convinces Amelia, she gives in.

 

 

Albeit begrudgingly, but nonetheless she lets Maggie thread her fingers around her wrist and pull her up.

 

 

Progress. 

 

 

                                                                                 *

 

 

 

Half an hour later, the kitchen is clean, the room smells a little less like a firefighter's locker room and 

Amelia is still glancing at the cabinet.

 

 

She's staring and drumming her fingers absentmindedly.

 

 

Lost in a world that Maggie is a stranger to.

 

 

"So, umm. What now?"

 

 

Maggie's manages to break the trance and catches her off guard, eyes startled, expression blank.

 

 

 

"Hmmm?"

 

 

"What were you making? We should ahhh- Finish it."

 

 

The words hang between them heavy and unsure.

 

 

It takes Amelia a full second before she snaps out of it.

 

 

Blinks.

 

 

Once.

 

 

 

Twice.

 

"Yea. Yes, umm. Here, you chop these peppers right? And, I'll get back to the chicken."

 

 

And so they continue.

 

 

 

                                                                                   *

 

 

 

One hour and forty-five minutes later, the food is in the oven, the smell of pasta and oregano wafting through the air.

 

The oven timer ticks away steadily as a background for clinking spoons and crushing guilt.

 

 

Amelia had found half a pint of cookie dough ice cream in the back of the freezer.

 

 

It seemed like a refreshing way to end the day. A refreshing moment amid the silence that threatened to consume them both.

 

"So...Umm? What now?"

 

 

She makes a popping sound with the spoon as the words leave her mouth and the cream coats her throat.

 

 

An awkward attempt to lift the silence.

 

 

Amelia shrugs, hair tumbling around her shoulders, barely putting in enough effort to convey a tangible message.

 

 

Ever so persistent, Maggie resolves to try again.

 

 

"Hey...Umm. Question?"

 

 

_Please God, don't let this be awkward....._

 

 

"Shoot."

 

 

"Why didn't you want to call Alex?"

 

 

The neurosurgeon raises an eyebrow.

 

 

Confused.

 

 

"You...When you were ramb- talking. You said you didn't want to call Alex. Did something happen?"

 

 

Amelia's expression goes from confused to distant in a matter of seconds and Maggie finds herself rushing to explain.

 

 

Terrified she messed this good thing up.

 

 

"It's none of my business, I was jus-"

 

 

"Maggie. Mag-...Slow down...-Nothing happened with Alex...It's just umm- He was driving."

 

 

She pauses just for a second.

 

 

 

Realizes the lapse in conversation was longer than she had hoped for and continues.

 

 

"I just didn't want to bother him."

 

 

She ends off the conversation with a spoon of cookie dough and a half-assed shrug that could mean anything and absolutely nothing at the exact same time.

 

 

A reluctant defeat that she doesn't want to specify on.

 

 

(Amelia sits there and pretends that her explanation of passing up a opportunity to annoy Alex is entirely believable. They both know it isn't. But, for some reason, Maggie can't fathom why.)

                                         

 

 

 

                                                                                  *

 

 

She doesn't get it until a couple seconds later. 

 

 

Amelia had gotten up to check on the bake and it sort of just clicked.

 

 

He was driving.

 

 

Maggie's eyes well up with tears.

 

 

The realization hits Maggie hard and she finds herself completely sideswiped.

 

 

Mouth dropped, opened soundlessly at what she knows is a wall of guilt that surrounds the other woman. 

 

 

Emptying and emptied.

 

 

She blinks.

 

 

Blinks.

 

 

Breathes in and out.

 

 

But only just.

 

(Amelia told her that breathing doesn't mean living. Maybe she was right.)

 

 

 

                                                                                  *

 

  
Amelia's puzzled expression lasts a second.

 

 

Eyebrow raised at a expression Maggie is sure looks completely worrisome.

 

 

Eyebrow raised for just a second before it's immediately lowered, realization scribbled on the shadows of her face.

 

 

Maggie chooses her words deliberately, as to not spook the guarded woman. 

 

 

"Amelia...You didn't-"

 

 

She's interrupted by a laugh.

 

 

Amelia laughs, the sound resounding, an empty echo throughout the room.

 

 

Amelia laughs a bitter laugh. It's bitter even though Maggie is sure she doesn't intend it to be.

 

 

There's this tension between them, something that Maggie is sure she can't quite fathom.

 

 

Another thing she doesn't understand. 

 

 

"Let me show you something."

  
           
                                                                                  *

 

 

She fills in Amelia about her talks with Derek on the ride to the cemetery.

 

 

Surprisingly, the neurosurgeon is quiet. 

 

 

Blinks sullenly and drums her fingers on her thigh, the movement serving as the only indication that she is paying attention.

 

 

Stays that way until the two surgeon's find themselves at a spot all too familiar and  places bright flowers on a muted grave.

 

 

Two voices, a whispered chorus in the wind.

 

 

"Happy Birthday Derek."

**Author's Note:**

> What do you think? Comments? Critiques? Let me know.


End file.
